As far as the tombstone . . . I’d keep the shade closed.
“Well,” she said, clapping her hands together, “you’ve . . .” She frowned, blinking rapidly, finally using her fingertips to tap her forehead somewhat violently, her head snapping up, “Arrived!” she declared.
“Yes. I . . . have . . . arrived?” What was that about?
She shook her head. “No, you arrived just in time for the social hour downstairs.”
“Social hour?”
“Right. It’s in the room at the back of the house, where guests are welcome to mingle and such. We serve my sister Cricket’s homemade hooch.”
My brows flew up. “Prison wine?”
“That’s right. She perfected it in the toilet inside her cell during her time away, and now it’s a family favorite and all the rave at social hour.”
I stared. Speechless.
“Of course, we don’t make it in a toilet, seeing as we have other options.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“That would be unhygienic,” she clarified needlessly.
“Among other things.”
She laughed faintly.
“Anyway,” I went on, shaking myself, as though I’d stepped outside reality for a moment. “Sounds . . . interesting. I’m a little tired though so I’m going to skip social hour for tonight.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll just get out of your way then.”
After the door had closed behind her, I stripped off my clothes and made my way to the shower and then, clad in my boxers, fell back on the bed, the springs making a loud creaking sound. Despite the obvious age of the mattress, the bed was comfortable. I lay there for a few minutes, expecting to fall asleep immediately. Instead I stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. There was a tall potted plant next to the bed and I turned to it. Living things feed off energy. “How’s it going?” I asked the plant, hitting a new life low.
The soft sound of laughter drifted to me from below.
Social hour.
Complete with hooch.
And here I was, alone and talking to a plant.
“Why the fuck not?” I muttered after a minute, pulling myself from the bed and dressing in jeans and a T-shirt. If any day called for some hooch, it was this day.
I followed the sound of voices to the large screened-in room, coming to an immediate halt in the doorway, my surprised gaze bouncing between Haven Torres and—my eyes narrowed—Easton Torres.
Well. This was unexpected. And either more bad luck, or an amazing opportunity.
Haven was in the midst of a conversation with the woman next to her, but Easton spotted me, his shocked eyes widening. I gave him my best evil smile and he blanched.
“Chief Hale?” Haven had noticed me.
I turned away from Easton, approaching the place where Haven sat. She was wearing a pair of leggings and a long T-shirt that fell off one shoulder. Her chestnut hair was pulled back the way it’d been both times I’d seen her, escaped curls haphazardly framing her face, somewhat reminiscent of Medusa. If Medusa had had a heart-shaped face, big expressive eyes, and lips the color of the wild pink roses that grew along the fence on my property. My heart did a strange unfamiliar something. Sort of twisty. Sort of squeezy. Maybe I was about to have a heart attack. It would be the perfect way to end a perfect week, spread out on the floor of The Yellow Trellis Inn, my life in the hands of my nemesis and a group of strangers drunk on hooch.
The woman Haven had been talking to had turned and was now engaged in conversation with an older woman with long, blonde hair liberally woven with white, and sporting a pair of overalls. “Haven from California,” I said.
“Are you following me, Chief Hale? This level of stakeout seems overkill for the minor crime of reckless driving.”
I stopped, glancing back at Easton. His alarmed gaze had followed me, as a rabbit might track a wolf.
“Ha. No. Did you flood my house in a desperate plan to get more viewing access to my . . . adequate muscles?”
She put her hand to her chest. “You are a good investigator. I’ve been exposed.” She gave me a look of actual sympathy. “Are you serious about your house?”
“Sadly, yes. It’s a rental, but most of my things are ruined.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
I shrugged, gesturing to the room at large. “This is your summer residence, I assume. It’s about as far as you can get from the club without staying in Pelion.”
“It was in the right price range,” she explained. “You might be shocked to learn that smoothie bar operators must keep to a strict budget.”
I smiled. “Though you’re rich in personality.”
She returned the smile. “This is true.”
“I’m surprised you’re here though. I’d think the chief of police would have plenty of more . . . upscale options.”
“The upcoming blueberry festival,” I said in explanation. “Most places are booked. I own a plot of land, but I’d have to pitch a tent if I wanted to stay there.”